LEGEND by David A. Gemmell

‘Wonderful,’ said Rek. ‘I used to be a fine bowman.’

‘Yes,’ said Horeb. ‘Just remember when you use it that the sharp end is pointed away from you. Now begone – and take care.’

‘Thanks, Horeb. You too. And remember what I said about candles.’

‘I will. On your way, boy. Be lucky now.’

Rek rode from the south gate as the watchmen trimmed the lantern wicks. The dawn shadows were shrinking on the streets of Drenan and young chil­dren played beneath the portcullis. He had chosen the southern route for the most obvious of reasons. The Nadir were marching from the North and the fastest way from a battle was a straight line in the opposite direction.

Flicking his heels, he urged the gelding forward towards the south. To his left the rising sun was breasting the blue peaks of the eastern mountains. The sky was blue, birds sang and the sounds of an awakening city came from behind him. But the sun was rising, Rek knew, on the Nadir. For the Drenai it was dusk on the last day.

Topping a rise he gazed down on Graven Forest, white and virginal under the winter snow. And yet it was a place of evil legends which normally he would have avoided. The fact that instead he chose to enter showed he knew two things: first, the legends were built around the activities of a living man; second, he knew that man.

Reinard.

He and his band of bloodthirsty cut-throats had their headquarters in Graven and were an open, festering sore in the body of trade. Caravans were sacked, pilgrims were murdered, women were raped. Yet an army could not seek them out, so vast was the forest.

Reinard. Sired by a prince of Hell, born to a noblewoman of Ulalia. Or so he told it. Rek had heard that his mother was a Lentrian whore and his father a nameless sailor. He had never repeated this intelligence – he did not, as the phrase went, have the guts for it. Even if he had, he mused, he would not keep them long once he tried it. One of Reinard’s favourite pastimes with prisoners was to roast sections of them over hot coals and serve the meat to those poor unfortunates taken prisoner with them. If he met Reinard, the best thing would be to flatter the hell out of him. And if that didn’t work, to give

him the latest news, send him in the direction of the nearest caravan and ride swiftly from his domain.

Rek had made sure he knew the details of all the caravans passing through Graven and their probable routes. Silks, jewels, spices, slaves, cattle. In truth he had no wish to part with this information. Nothing would please him better than to ride through Graven quietly, knowing the caravanners’ fate was in the lap of the gods.

The chestnut’s hooves made little sound on the snow, and Rek kept the pace to a gentle walk in case hidden roots should cause the horse to stumble. The cold began to work its way through his warm clothing and his feet were soon feeling frozen within the doeskin boots. He reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of sheepskin mittens.

The horse plodded on. At noon, Rek stopped for a brief, cold meal, hobbling the gelding by a frozen stream. With a thick Vagrian dagger he chipped away the ice, allowing the beast to drink, then gave him a handful of oats. He stroked the long neck and the chestnut’s head came up sharply, teeth bared. Rek leapt backwards, falling into a deep snowdrift. He lay there for a moment, then smiled.

‘I knew you didn’t like me,’ he said. The horse turned to look at him and snorted.

As he was about to mount, Rek glanced at the horse’s hind-quarters. Deep switch scars showed by the tail.

Gently, his hand moved over them. ‘So,’ he said, ‘someone took a whip to you, eh, Daffodil? Didn’t break your spirit did they, boy?’ He swung into the saddle. With luck, he reckoned, he should be free of the forest in five days.

Gnarled oaks with twisted roots cast ominous dusk shadows across the track and night breezes set the branches to whispering as Rek walked the gelding deeper into the forest. The moon was rising above the trees, casting a ghostly light on the trail. Teeth chattering, he began to cast about for a good camp­ing site, finding one an hour later in a small hollow by an ice-covered pool. He built a stall in some bushes to keep the worst of the wind from the horse, fed it and then built a small fire by a fallen oak and a large boulder. Out of the wind, the heat reflected from the stone, Rek brewed tea to help down his dried beef; then he pulled his blanket over his shoul­ders, leaned against the oak and watched the flames dance.